Free Lakeside Cottage by Susan Wiggs

for the stairs.
    As Kate watched her go, something about Callie touched a chord in her. The girl moved awkwardly withinan oversize gray sweat suit, and she kept her head partially ducked as though anticipating a blow. Yet despite the ugly sweats and dirty bare feet, there was a touch of teenage vanity. Her fingernails and toenails were painted a beautiful shade of pink.
    Aaron eyed Kate reproachfully.
    “Don’t even say it,” Kate warned, getting up. “I’ll go talk to her.”
    “I knew it,” he said, shooting out of his seat and punching the air.
    “You can go play with Bandit while I sort this out.”
    In the big bedroom, Callie had opened the drapes to let in a flood of afternoon sunlight. A large backpack was propped by the door, and Callie was busy putting the sheets on the bed.
    “I used my sleeping bag, honest,” she said. “I didn’t use your linens.” She tucked the fitted sheet around one corner of the mattress.
    Kate tucked the opposite corner. “I’m not worried about the linens,” she said. “I’m worried about you. How old are you, Callie?”
    “I’ll be, um, eighteen in July,” she said, her gaze shifting nervously. “That’ll be good because I’ll be a legal adult and I can do whatever I want.”
    Kate wondered what she wanted but decided to start with a different set of questions. Callie didn’t look as though she was nearly eighteen. There was a subtle softness and roundness in her face and a haunted, lost look in her eyes that made her seem younger. “Talk to me, Callie,” she said. “I’m not going to turn you over to the authorities. Where are you from?”
    Callie opened the top sheet with a snap. The motion stirred a golden flurry of dust motes as though the housewas waking up. The air was filled with the sunny smell of clean laundry.
    “California,” she said.
    “That narrows it down,” Kate commented. “Do you mind telling me why you were in foster care?”
    “Because my mother belonged to this creepy commune,” she said, giving up the information without resistance. “It was near Big Sur, and it was supposed to be this incredible self-sufficient utopia.” Callie must have noticed Kate’s surprised glance. “They homeschooled us, and some of us actually got a decent education. Brother Timothy—he was the founder—has a Ph.D. in cultural anthropology from Berkeley.” She opened the cedar chest at the end of the bed. “Is this quilt okay?”
    Kate nodded and helped unfold the quilt, a sturdy, colorful family heirloom stitched by one of the Livingston women a couple of generations back.
    “So, this Brother Timothy?” she prompted, sensing Callie’s dislike.
    “He’s not anybody’s brother and I’m sure by now Berkeley’s ashamed to claim him. He’s doing time for child molestation.”
    Kate’s skin crawled. “Are you one of his victims?” she asked.
    Callie worked with brisk agitation, creating perfect hospital corners. “When I was a kid, I had fun living there. We ran around and swam in the ocean and actually had a couple of good teachers. But once we hit puberty, pow. We didn’t get to be kids anymore. Brother Timothy called us—the younger girls—his angels.”
    Kate abandoned making the bed. She sat on the side of the bed and motioned for Callie to do the same. “Didn’t your mother…” She hesitated, knowing she ought tochoose her words carefully. “Do you think the adults in the commune were aware of this?”
    Callie snorted and nodded her head. “None of the mothers lifted a finger to stop him. They were all, like, under his spell or something. He convinced them that we were their gifts to him. Even if a girl got hysterical and fought back, the mothers made her go to Brother Timothy. They did everything they were told, like they were Stepford hippies, you know?”
    “That’s a nightmare,” Kate said.
    “You’re telling me.”
    Kate noticed that Callie hadn’t answered her question about whether or not she was one of Brother